“Julius transferred to St. Paul’s in the middle of his freshman year.”
“From where?” said McCain.
“I believe he was homeschooled for two months,” Winfield said. “Before that he attended Lancaster Prep over in Brookline.”
“Why’d he transfer?”
“We gave him a full scholarship, so I assumed that was the reason. Then I found out he had had a full scholarship at Lancaster, too, so the answer is I don’t know. I always wondered what the story was, but . . . he did well here, and everyone was jazzed having him on board. We’d done well in every sport but b-ball. With Julius playing, that changed for the better.”
Winfield sat back in his chair and sighed. “Maybe Lancaster knew, but I didn’t.” He shook his head. “This one hurts.”
Lancaster Prep was a feeder for the Ivies. Its approach was old-fashioned, and its donors were old money. Episcopal, too, but here there was no opting out. The student population was well into its seventh generation of legacies, the exception being the athletes that Lancaster recruited hyperactively. Winning the yearly homecoming football game against Xavier was high-priority.
Yet another coach, yet another retired third-string basketball pro. Richard Farnsworth, a six-three guard who’d gone to fat, had played six seasons with eight different teams. By his own account, he was a workaholic, and it was unusual not to find him either in his office or on the court.
Farnsworth’s office was compact and functional and also filled with trophies. He sat at his desk, ran his hand through shocks of curly gray hair, said, “Don’t waste your time going through medical records. The school doesn’t have them. When Julius left the school, his paperwork left with him.”
“There was a problem,” said Change.
Farnsworth scowled. “I was threatened with a huge civil lawsuit and dismissal if I spoke about it to anyone. Medical confidentiality and all that.”
“The boy is dead, and this is a murder investigation,” Dorothy said.
“What are you talking about?” said Farnsworth. “Julius was shot.”
Change gave him the facts. Farnsworth looked ready to vomit. “Oh man—no, no, don’t tell me that!” He pounded the table. “God, this is just sickening!”
McCain said, “What do you know about it, sir?”
Farnsworth grabbed a wad of tissues from a Kleenex box and slapped at his own face. “Goddammit! As soon as I got the report, I called up the parents and told them there was no way that the school would permit him to play basketball.”
“You spoke to Ellen Van Beest?” Dorothy asked.
“No, no,” Farnsworth said, “I talked to the old man—Leon.”
“Leo,” Dorothy corrected.
“Yeah. Right. Leo knew his kid shouldn’t play. Leo himself was in the game a few years before me.” Farnsworth’s eyes clouded, shot back somewhere into his past.
Dorothy said, “So you spoke to Leo.”
“I told him we needed to talk. He said the mother was busy working, so he’d come in. I told him Julius needed to be looked at by a specialist. He said he’d take care of it right away. I had no reason to doubt him. After all, it was his son, right?”
Farnsworth muttered under his breath.
“Soon after, he pulled the kid out of school. Said he was going to homeschool him while his medical problems were being tended to, some kind of operation. I thought that made a lot of sense. Julius was no dummy, but we didn’t accept him on the basis of his test scores. So maybe a homeschool situation would be the best solution if he was going to be laid up.”
“And Leo took the X-rays with him,” said Dorothy.
Farnsworth nodded. “So he could get a second opinion. That made sense, too, right?”
The Coach cursed under his breath. “About three, four months later, I saw Julius playing for St. Paul’s at the intramural games. My first thought was he must’ve had one hell of a surgeon. I was brooding over the fact that he didn’t come back to Lancaster. Then, after mulling it over, I still thought that it was weird for Julius to be playing any kind of contact sport so soon after a major operation. Not that it was any of my business, but I called him up.”
“Who?”
“Julius,” Farnsworth said. “I think secretly I entertained hopes he’d come back to Lancaster if I sweet-talked him. The kid was as cold as ice. He said his medical problem was taken care of. Thank you. Good-bye.”
He licked his lips. “Something was off. I called the old man and he cussed me out left and right, said if I interfered in his son’s business, he’d make trouble for me. He said if I told anyone about anything, I’d be breaching confidentiality and he’d own my kids and my house.” He threw up his hands. “It wasn’t like the boy didn’t know.”
Dorothy said, “You didn’t think of calling up his mother?”
“I thought the boy was living with his old man. I thought that if I told the mother and the old man had custody, he’d make good on his promise and slap me with a lawsuit.” Tears welled up in Farnsworth’s eyes. “I didn’t think about it too hard because Leo was Julius’s father.”
He pounded the table again. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You were thinking that Leo had his son’s best interest at heart,” Dorothy said.
Farnsworth nodded, grateful for the out.
“You were thinking that no father would intentionally put his son in harm’s way.”
“Correct. That’s it to a T.”
“You were thinking that if Julius was playing, he must have been strong enough to play.”
“Yes, yes, exactly!”
“You were thinking all the right things,” Dorothy said. “Unfortunately, your conclusion was still wrong.”
17
Two-thirty in the afternoon and already Leo Van Beest was deep into alcoholic memories.
Back to the days when he’d been a Ferrari. For a while, the ride had been fast, wild, dangerously thrilling.
Now two detectives were standing over him and the dream was gone and Leo was feeling mighty sorry for himself.
His house was a one-bedroom, shingle-front dump, unkempt and unloved with dirty ice for a front yard. A rusted green Mercedes diesel sedan sat in the sunken driveway.
Inside, threadbare carpeting covered the floor, and bedsheets draped the windows. There were crusted dishes in the sink, and rumpled clothing and wrinkled papers were scattered everywhere. A rotten smell permeated the stifling front room. The walls were yellowed, hung with black-and-white photos from Leo’s European glory days. The old man was dressed in torn sweats, drinking from a coffee mug, staring into the cup. A boozy steam wafted up from the rim and misted his face.
“I wouldn’t have done it, ’cept that’s what Julius wanted.”
Dorothy said, “Parents are supposed to talk children out of bad decisions, Mr. Van Beest.”
Leo looked up from his drink. Red eyes struggled to focus on Dorothy’s face. He was sitting, but Dorothy was standing. No way she was going to touch that couch. Who knew what he had done on it?
“You think it was a bad decision, huh?” The old man sipped his drink. “I supposed to talk my son out of being someone big . . . someone famous. So he can do backbreaking labor for the rest of his days?”
“There were other options,” McCain said.
Leo smiled, then laughed. “Oh, yeah. Other options. Like college. Like Julius was some kind of smarty.” He laughed again, but it was mirthless. “That boy was born to move—born to run and jump and be a star. He was a racehorse, not an old plow horse. Julius was a giant! He was big and strong and coordinated and had a talent that was given to God’s creatures once in a lifetime. That boy was a giant even with the giants. And I supposed to tell him he can’t do it?”
He shook his head no, then he looked up again.
“You wanna know what the boy said to me? He said, ‘Pops, I’d rather be a shooting star than no star at all. You gotta keep this a secret. You gotta not tell Mama, no matter what! You got
ta be a man about this, Pops. And you gotta let me be a man.’”
“That your definition of being a man?” McCain said. “Knowing every time your son went on the basketball court, he could drop dead?”
“And a cop don’t look death in the eye every time he answers a call?”
“That’s a cheap shot,” Dorothy said.
“No, you don’t understand!” Leo said forcefully. He jabbed his finger up in the air. “You’re a cop, that’s your job. Julius was a basketball player. That was his job! And I be damned if I wasn’t gonna let him live out his dream.”
“His dream or your dream?” Dorothy said.
“Don’t matter now,” Leo snarled at her. “Because now it’s nobody’s dream.”
No one spoke.
“I know what you all is thinking: that I killed my son by lettin’ him play. Bullshit! Better he die a quick death than a slow painful one, you know what I’m saying?”
“No, I don’t know what you’re saying, sir,” Dorothy said. “But that’s irrelevant. If Julius had died in high school, I would have arrested you—for endangering the life of your child, maybe even for murder. But Julius died three years after he reached his majority. He knew his situation and he knew it was dangerous. At some point, it was his responsibility.”
Leo nodded in agreement. “You’re right about that, lady. The boy wanted to play no matter what.”
“That’s why he brought in X-rays of your chest instead of his,” McCain said.
Leo didn’t answer.
“Those were your X-rays, weren’t they?” Dorothy said.
“My boy asked me to help him and I did,” Leo said.
Dorothy’s hands tightened into fists. He just didn’t get it.
McCain said, “You helped your son nail his own coffin, Mr. Van Beest. But like Detective Breton said, in the end it was Julius’s decision.”
“So what happens now?” said Leo.
“Legally, you’re off the hook,” Dorothy said. “But morally . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. “We’re going now. If you want to contact us about anything, I can be reached at this number.” She handed him her card.
Leo pursed his lips and tossed it aside. “Why would I want to talk to you?”
“You never know,” McCain said.
“Does Ellen know how the boy died?”
McCain nodded. “She knows he died of an aneurysm.”
“But she don’t know the full story?”
Dorothy said, “We see no reason to give her additional heartache. I’m not going to rat you out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Leo digested that. Nodded and got up from the couch. “I’ll walk you out.”
“No need,” McCain said. “The place ain’t that big.”
They closed the door and walked away silently, too depressed to talk. They were halfway down the driveway, just past the Mercedes, when they heard the gunshot.
It made the front pages of the Globe and the Herald. Leo had lived a bum life, but he died a heartbroken hero. Ellen Van Beest attended two funerals in one week, then she took an extended vacation to be with her family.
“I could use that,” Dorothy told McCain. “An extended vacation. As a matter of fact, I’d go for any kind of vacation.”
“It’s only two p.m.” He closed his suitcase. “You still got time to take the boys and come down to Florida with me. We can celebrate together.”
“Micky, Christmas is snow on the treetops, a big roaring fire, and spicy, hot rum. Not palm trees and a sunburn.”
“You burn?”
“Only when stupid people get on my nerves.”
McCain grinned. “There’s rum in Miami, pard.”
She rolled her eyes and checked her watch. Micky’s plane was supposed to depart in an hour. Unlike most airports, Logan International was located close to the city center—the one good thing about the place. Still, the roads were icy and traffic was always a bitch, especially on Christmas Eve. “We’d better get going, Micky.”
He hefted his suitcase. “Let’s do it, Detective.”
Though the road was snarled and the tempers were hot, Dorothy made decent time. She watched Micky disappear into the terminal, then hooked back onto the highway for the ride back. All she wanted to do was get home and hug her kids.
Three blocks from her house, it started to snow . . . a gentle dusting. Soft snow, the kind that tickles your nose and face, the kind that makes you want to stick out your tongue and eat it. The kind of snow that turns dirty old Boston into a picturesque, quaint New England town.
Dorothy blinked and felt her cheeks go wet.
It was going to be a beautiful Christmas. She had to believe that.
JONATHAN KELLERMAN is one of the world’s most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to numerous bestselling tales of suspense (which have been translated into two dozen languages), including the Alex Delaware novels; The Butcher’s Theater, a story of serial killing in Jerusalem; and Billy Straight, featuring Hollywood homicide detective Petra Connor. He is also the author of numerous essays, short stories, and scientific articles, two children’s books, and three volumes of psychology, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. He and his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, have four children.
FAYE KELLERMAN’s first novel, The Ritual Bath, won the Macavity Award and generated the internationally bestselling Peter Decker/Rina Lazarus series. She has also written the Las Vegas thriller Moon Music and a historical novel featuring William Shakespeare, The Quality of Mercy. Faye Kellerman’s short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies, including Deadly Allies, A Woman’s Eye, A Modern Treasury of Great Detective and Murder Mysteries, Mothers and Daughters, Murder for Love, and The Year’s Finest Crime and Mystery Stories. Her nonfiction essay “How I Caught a Mugger” appeared in the bestselling compilation Small Miracles. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Jonathan Kellerman, and a rotating assortment of their children.
To our children
Jesse and Gabriella Kellerman
Jonathan and Rachel Kessler
Ilona Kellerman
Aliza Kellerman
Special thanks to Michael McGarrity,
Santa Fe, New Mexico, police chief Beverly Lennen, and Detective Sgt. Jerry Trujillo.
Still Life
1
Darrel Two Moons and Steve Katz were having a late dinner at Café Karma when the call came in. The restaurant was Katz’s choice. Again. Two Moons watched his partner put aside his Eden-Yield Organic Lamb Plus Eclectic Veggie Burrito with great reluctance and fiddle in his pocket for his chirping pager.
It was just after ten-thirty p.m. Probably another south side domestic violence. For five weeks running, Darrel and Katz had worked the four p.m. to two a.m. Special Investigations shift. Their calls had consisted of feuding spouses, gang assaults, various and sundry alcohol-related issues, all taking place below St. Michael’s—the Mason-Dixon Line that split Santa Fe and was more than an arbitrary map squiggle.
It was three weeks before Christmas, and the first few days of December had signaled an easy winter, with daytime temperatures in the forties. But four days ago, the weather had taken a drop: fifteen degrees Fahrenheit at night. The snow that had fallen during this serious drought year remained white and fluffy. The air was cold and biting. Their shift was one big freezer burn.
At least the weirdos who ran Café Karma kept the dive warm. Downright hot. A big and tall kind of guy to begin with, Darrel was drowning in clothing, sweating in his black wool shirt and black tie, black corduroy sports coat, and heavy black gabardine slacks tailored in Germany and inherited from his father. His quilted black ski jacket was draped over a horribly hand-painted chair, but he kept the sports coat on to conceal the department-issue .45 in its X-harnessed cowhide shoulder holster. No problem hiding his unauthorized boot gun, a nickel-plated .22. It nuz
zled his calf, snug in his left custom-stitched elephant-hide Tony Lama.
Katz had on what he’d worn every night since the weather had turned: a fuzzy brown and white plaid Pendleton shirt over a white cotton turtleneck, faded blue jeans, black and white high-top sneakers. Over his chair was that ratty gray wool overcoat—pure New Yawk. How could he keep his feet warm in those Keds?
Two Moons sipped coffee and ate his dinner as Katz finally freed the now-silent pager. Over by the pastry case, the multipierced Goth waitress who’d served them—or tried to—stood gazing into space. She’d taken their order with vacant eyes, then had proceeded to the coffee machines, where the detectives watched her spend six straight minutes foaming Katz’s Green Tea Chai Latte. Six and a half, to be precise: The detectives had timed her.
Staring into the foam, like it held some kind of big cosmic secret.
Darrel and Katz had exchanged knowing glances, then Two Moons had muttered under his breath about what was really cooking in the back room. Katz had cracked up, his big red mustache rising and falling. This month, another team was handling narcotics.
Katz studied the number on the pager and said, “Dispatch.” A bit more fumbling in another pocket and he produced his little blue cell phone.
Another meal cut short. Two Moons ate fast as Katz called in. He’d ordered as close to normal as possible at this loony bin: a mushroom burger with chipotle-spiced home fries and sliced tomatoes. Specifying no sprouts, but they’d stuck a tumbleweed of the stuff on his plate anyway. Darrel hated it; it reminded him of cattle fodder. Or something picked out of a comb. Just looking at it made him want to spit. He removed it and wrapped it in a napkin, whereupon Katz immediately grabbed it and snarfed it down.
If it were up to Katz, they’d be here every night. Darrel conceded that the food was consistently good, but atmosphere was another issue. With its snaky walkway embedded with pebbles and shards of mirror glass, antiwar petitions tacked to the Technicolor walls of the tiny entry, and cell-like rooms full of mismatched thrift shop furniture and incense fumes, Karma was what his gunnery sergeant father used to call “hippie-dippie left-wing lunacy crap.”
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